I honestly have no memory of how I walked him into a clinical exam space and got him to take his t shirt off; my logical brain was off-line. As he pulled it over his head I stared at the paperwork and then I looked up. He was broad shouldered, tapering to a perfectly proportioned waist, and he was just mildly suntanned, the artificial light slid like honey off his toned skin. And he was ripped, not body builder overplayed ripped, just wonderfully and fantastically and naturally defined, each muscle visible as it slid faultlessly around and between another, playing sweet music that built to a crescendo as he laid his shirt on a chair and straightened up. I fumbled for my stethoscope and got it on his chest and the crystal clear thought formed in my mind about how utterly pointless it was. All I could hear was my own heart beating. I managed to get him out of there, with painkillers as predicted, with some mumbled advice to “Come back if it gets worse”, gaze averted. I am sure it was nothing serious – he never came back so I’m sure he was fine.
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